


With the Changing of Seasons

by JennaCupcakes



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fisher King Thranduil, M/M, implied Bard/Thranduil, well that's what it started out as anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 17:36:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3455906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter lies before Dale, and Bard goes to make a request of Thranduil. It follows him through his first year as King of Dale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With the Changing of Seasons

The first time Bard of Laketown goes to visit Thranduil, it’s in the middle of winter.

The weather is bleak, with snow and ice covering the country, the lake frozen solid on the shores, but diplomatic relations want to be maintained, and Bard has a duty now, one he is not sure he was made for but takes up anyway. He curses it, silently, while hiking through snow that reaches up to his knees, but he goes. 

Winter has not spared the forest, either, much to Bard’s dismay. He briefly muses at how he used to come here to collect barrels, and now represents a town. It feels like ages ago. Once, he was the very end of a food chain of trade with the Woodland realm - now he hopes to revive trade relations once more from the very top. In bargaining with the King of the Wood himself.

The world around him is black and white, and whenever Bard brushes past something icy crystals rain down on him from above. His feet are cold and his fingers numb, despite being shoved deep into his coat pockets.

He sees no footsteps made by either men or elves on the snow, but strangely doesn’t feel like he is alone. When he looks around, he sees an elf stand silently next to a tall, leafless ash tree. He stills, but the elf is not armed like a guard and does not draw a weapon upon seeing him. Maybe they are taking a walk - for all the dangers of the forest the elves here don’t seem to have lost their love for nature. 

The elf takes a step back, and Bard sees the footprint of a doe appear where the elf stood before. He looks up again, incredulous, but the elf only smirks and with a whirl of their gown and another rain of snow falling from the branches above disappears into the forest. 

Bard always knew folk in this forest were strange.

Keeping the river to his right, he follows it until he reaches the gates of Thranduil’s fortress. Fashioned, like everything elves make, in accord and harmony with nature, this one has been grown out of one or many living trees, with strong gates manned by elven guards in the center. The path leads Bard directly up to them.

 “I have business with King Thranduil,“ he announces, and the guards nod and part and let him pass. It is hard to tell with elves, especially when they are wearing their helmets, but Bard thinks it’s entirely plausible that these elves have seen him during the battle, that he has seen them as well perhaps, and that they recognise him as Bard the Bowman, Bard the Dragonslayer.

 Behind the gate it is surprisingly warm, and slightly damp, and Bard wonders if there are hot springs running underneath the palace that keep the temperature up in winter, or if this is some higher elven magic that he does not understand.

 None of the guards come with him, but there is only one broad path to follow, and as he suspects, it leads him directly to the king.

 Thranduil is seated on a throne that reminds Bard of the bare branches of trees in winter, a barren structure, intricately twisted in on itself. The wood itself is pale, perhaps from a beech or maple tree, but Bard does not pretend to know a lot about different kinds of wood. He knows of working, and of keeping a family fed. There is not much else to know for him - or there never was, up until recently.

 He bows before the king, and Thranduil bids him welcome.

 “How nice of you to visit.“

 Bard remembers the Elven King from the battle months ago, and wonders if his voice has always had that icy touch to it, sharp as icicles and languid like the creaking of snow under boots on a cold winter day. The king’s garments are simple and white, with a few silver embroideries that shine in the pale light illuminating the throne room. Upon his head sits a crown of small branches, decorated with holly berries that seem to be the only colour in the room.

 “We’ve rebuilt our homes as best we can,“ Bard says, not sure where to begin or how to put his sentences in the face of a being who has been a king for longer than Bard even dares to imagine, “Refilled our stocks with what was salvageable from our town.“

 He pauses. 

 “It might not last us the winter.“

 “So you come to me.“

 Thranduil has sat up on his throne and is leaning slightly forward, and Bard cannot tell if his interest has been piqued or if he is mimicking the posture of one forest predator or another. Hawks, he knows, are drawn to old woods in particular, and hunt excellently between trees. 

 “You have more resources than we do,“ Bard says, “You could help us get through the worst. We don’t ask for much, and we’ve been given gold by the dwarves, so we can pay…“

 Thranduil makes a sweeping gesture, and a sudden cold wind touches Bard’s face.

 “Gold does not interest me.“

 Thranduil gets up, and Bard is always surprised by how much taller the elven king seems when he stands - it must be the posture, the raised chin and straightened back. He stands like a tree, but moves like wind as he descends effortlessly from his throne to stop before Bard.

 “I will give you what you ask,“ he says, “In exchange, I ask for whatever goods you may offer when next year’s winter comes. Whatever you have, whatever you choose to do to keep your town fed, be that farming, trade, or more fishing.“

 He smirks, then, like clouds parting for a ray of sun, albeit a cold winter sun. 

 “Surprise me.“

 Bard thanks him, then, and they negotiate the specifics until it is almost time for the sun to set and Bard takes his leave. On the way back, he sees browns and reds between the cold white of the snow, in leaves and bushes that are not entirely covered by snow, and thinks of Thranduils crown. 

—

 The second time Bard visits Thranduil, the snows have started melting and the lake has risen far over its banks. Everything is soft and still grey, the ground muddy and loose, saturated with water and ready for the warmth of spring to come.

 Thranduil wears a crown of sapling branches, and Bard thinks it cruel for a moment that these have been snapped off to decorate the head of the Elven King, but even after moments of close examination he cannot see where the branches have been cut. They simply seem to… grow, in a way that shouldn’t be possible. Then again, this is Thranduil he is facing - a powerful, ancient king whose magic is older than Bard can even imagine. 

 Thranduil’s gown is the colour of grass on a forest clearing, rich green tones mixed with earthen ones in a pattern that makes Bard dizzy just looking at it. 

 Again, he stands before the King with empty hands.

 “I came to thank you,“ he says, “Your generosity brought us through the winter. We could not have made it without you.“

 Thranduil seems amused every time he refers to himself and his people, like Bard is telling a joke that even he himself does not know about. Or maybe he is about to tell Bard again that his generosity is misplaced. 

 “We sowed the first grains today,“ he tells Thranduil. He still has the dirt under his fingernails to prove it, and while that doesn’t say anything about the success of the crop yet, he finds it a promising start. With the thawing lake, many of former Laketown citizens have made their way back to the water for fishing, but there are quite some who are ready to try their hand at farming. The dwarves have let them know that they will pay well come the harvest, so there is the prospect of trade to be taken up. Bard is optimistic.

 Thranduil seems to regard him with curiosity. 

 “It takes a king to make sure the people get through the following winter.“

 The meaning of his words is lost on Bard. Thranduil seems to take pleasure in being cryptic, as is the way of elves.   
He decides not to be offended.

 “We are doing what we can,“ he says humbly. 

 “That cannot be all you came here for. It seems a rather long way to make for an expression of gratitude.“

 Bard notices that this time, Thranduil never even strays near the throne. He is constantly pacing, striding up and down and moving his hands in sharp, precise gestures. _Like all of nature in spring_ , is what comes to Bard’s mind. 

 “Well, it’s a rather big debt,“ he replies.

 Truth be told, he has been looking forward to seeing Thranduil again. The provisions sent during the winter had been plenty, that much was true, but also nothing more than a distant connection to the Woodland realm. Bard has pondered Thranduil’s words from their meeting since then, and over time began to wish for another possibility to talk. He does not think elven kings usually ask to be surprised by bargemen turned kings.

 Thranduil takes the time to smile at him with sharp teeth. 

 “You will find it useful to have those with power in your debt, King Bard.“

 He says the name accompanied by a graceful bow of his head, but it still seems to Bard that he is being mocked. He was not born to politics as Thranduil probably was. He does not know the subtleties of this game.

 “I don’t think we can offer you much come autumn. Grains, fish, some vegetables if we’re lucky. There’s not much to be had, I fear.“

 “I stand by my word.“

 Thranduil is moving back now, Bard can feel the distance between them and senses a sudden electric charge in the air like an approaching thunderstorm. It makes the hairs on his arms stand up and prickle uncomfortably. 

 “Whatever you have to offer. I can have everything I desire from my own supplies, but it interests me what you do to secure yours.“

 “And why?“ 

 Bard is half ready to leave, does not think it wise to linger in the presence of the king any longer suddenly, because something in the air has changed that alarms him. He used to live on water, he has a nose for that kind of trouble.

 Thranduil does not give him an answer. 

 “It will be a long summer this year,“ he says, and Bard is sure he means something else by it.

—

 The storm breaks when Bard is halfway out of the forest, and it feels like a weight lifted off his lungs. With the first drops from the sky, the heavy air becomes cold and easier to breathe, and even though it only takes a minute or two until he is soaked to the skin, Bard revels in the feeling of cold water on his shoulders and head. 

 He finds shelter in a small unoccupied cave close to the borders of the forest, knowing full well he cannot make the journey over the lake in weather like this. He also knows better than to start a fire in the Greenwood, so he shakes, and rubs his hands together and waits.

 With the sun sinking, the colour drains from the world until the whole forest seems to exist only in dark greys and darker greens. Tree stumps and underbrush moving under the onslaught of water form curious figures in the half-light, as if the whole forest has suddenly come to life.

 Bard nods off when the rain becomes a steady downpour and the wind doesn’t seem to calm. In the dead of the night, he wakes with a start all of a sudden, momentary disorientation dissipating as he takes in the darkness and the cold around him. 

 It seems like in the distance, he catches the last wisp of a silken gown disappearing between the trees.

 —

 Summer is long and golden. 

 Summer sees the barren wasteland that once was Smaug’s desolation turn green and gold with crops and vegetables, sees houses restored and markets reopened. Bard walks through it like a dream, one day fading into the next with gentle rainfalls and pleasantly warm afternoons spent by the lake, watching out over the deep waters that will forever bury the dragon with his children. The light is soft, and by night the stars are clear.

 Some of Daín’s folk come to the town as well, trading little gems for fish, beer, cloth and what other goods they have need of. Gold from trade with the mountain allows Bard to reach for other suppliers beyond the Greenwood, tentatively strengthening old trade routes to stock up their supplies for the winter. They have much to do yet.

 This time, it is Thranduil who visits.

 He rides up on an elk, a rather young animal as Bard guesses by the size of its antlers, that are not much like the impressive horns of its predecessor. Still, the animal is larger than an elk has any right to be, and when Bard goes out to meet Thranduil before the borders of the city, he has to crane his neck to look him in the eye.

 “King Thranduil. We did not expect to see you.“

 There is something like a small smile on the Elven King’s face.

 “I was… in the neighborhood.“

 Thranduil looks around slowly. The wheat sways in a gentle breeze that comes from the lake, and the smell of grass lies heavily in the air. Bard wonders if the heat is bearable under the thick roof of branches in the forest, or if it’s near stifling nowadays, and if Thranduil welcomes the change of air. 

 “Well, we’re glad to have you, King Thranduil.“

 With these words, he leads them into the city, after Thranduil has sent his elk away with a few whispered words in Elvish. 

 Thranduil walks next to Bard with determined strides, but keeps looking around as they near the city. Bard can only half believe he is assessing what goods he will be offered come winter, some of it seems to stem from actual curiosity.

 When he can’t bear the silence anymore, he asks.

 “So what do you think?“

 Thranduil looks at him, and his face seems more open now than ever before. Instead of a crown, he is wearing a thin golden circlet around his head like the setting evening sun itself has painted gold on his hair, and his robes are light and move with the breeze. 

 “I think you’ve done splendid work for someone who claims he still doesn’t want to be a king.“

 Bard is not sure whether that is an insult or a compliment - as with most things Thranduil tells him, to be honest. He decides to take it as a compliment, because he likes to think of them as allies at least, maybe something akin to friends if Thranduil wasn’t an immortal elf king, and he a mortal human and a reluctant king. It would be nice to have a friend in this.

 “I thought of my people. And _they_ did most of the work.“

 “Under your command. It is only under a good king that a people can prosper.“

 Something passes over Thranduil’s face, a shadow like a bad memory. Bard thinks he knows what’s on his mind - the Greenwood they’ve taken to call Mirkwood, and now he wonders if Thranduil blames himself for that. 

 “Then you must be an exceptional king, to have a kingdom so resilient,“ Bard says, ungallantly, not quite the way he’d hoped it would come out, but it seems enough to distract Thranduil for the moment. He smiles again, albeit a rather bleak smile.

 They reach the city gates. 

 —

 Thranduil insists on the full tour, and he smiles more often than Bard has seen him smile ever since he’s known him. The elves that came with him brought summer fruit from their gardens, those that taste sweet with just a hint of bitterness. Bard thinks them wonderful. 

 They sit outside the house Bard has taken for himself and his children in the late afternoon, and talk idly about the weather and the crops and how bothersome trading with dwarves can be. In the low afternoon light, Thranduil looks like a summer sunset all by himself.

 —

 Autumn comes, and the anniversary of the battle passes, and Bard’s people are no longer mourning.

 Dale has been rebuilt as best they could, so that at least all people have a roof over their heads now, and the harvest has been plenty. When Bard sees his people fed and clothed, he thinks that maybe governing doesn’t have to be a duty all the time - it can be rewarding, too, to see how far a year has brought them.

 Mostly, he is glad so many have made it.

 That autumn, he makes the same way he once took on that fateful day when he picked up thirteen dwarves and a hobbit to bring them to Laketown, and tells himself it’s not sentimentality that he takes a barge that looks almost like his old boat. 

 The forest is still dark an alien to Bard, but he also begins to see Thranduil in it - in the sharp edges and unpredictability as well as in the soft murmur of water, or the distant birdsong up in the trees. It feels strange and familiar at the same time.

 He carries a basket full of goods they have made in the last year, grapes and wheat and vegetables, but also a small toy as a reminder of the once famous toy markets of Dale. Some sausages are wrapped in a cloth, next to some salad and a hard cheese. It’s a strange selection, but Bard is proud of it nevertheless. It’s quite something for just one year.

 When he stands before Thranduil, the king’s robes are the colour of fallen leaves, his crown a nest of interwoven branches and late-blooming flowers. He stands with a smile that betrays as much as it did the first day, which is still not much, but Bard knows him better now, and he bows his head and smiles as well.

 “Much has happened this past year,“ he says, “Much wouldn’t have happened without your help.“

 “I accept your gratitude,“ Thranduil says, and Bard wonders if that is also a nod to the first time he has helped out Dale, when he told Bard his gratitude was misplaced. “You have proven yourself a worthy king.“

 Thranduil bows his head as well. “King Bard.“

 He takes the basket from Bard’s hand and sets it down, then waves for a nearby servant to bring wine. Bard is handed a cup of the same wine he used to collect empty barrels of. The symbolism isn’t lost on him.

 “To future allies,“ Thranduil says, “And to your reign as king. May it be blessed.“

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this started out as Fisher King Thranduil, but it kind of went its own way from then on. I just really like the idea of Thranduil being so immersed in the Greenwood that he just becomes an impersonation of the forest. 
> 
> Anyways, thank you for reading.


End file.
